The Westcotes eBook

In theory—­such was the routine—­Raoul
remained one of the Axcester contingent of prisoners,
and all reports concerning him must pass through the
Commissary’s hands. In the last week of
October, when brother and sister daily expected the
cartel, arrived a report that the prisoner was in
hospital with a sharp attack of pleurisy. Major
Sotheby added a private note:-

"I feared yesterday that the exchange would come
too late for him; but to-day the Medical Officer,
who has just left me, speaks hopefully. I have
no doubt, however, that a winter in this climate would
be fatal. The fellow’s lungs are breaking
down, and even if they could stand the fogs, the cold
must finish him."

Dorothea stood by a window in the library when Endymion
read this out to her; the very window through which
she had been gazing that spring morning when Raoul
first kissed her. To-day the first of the winter’s
snow fell gently, persistently, out of a leaden and
windless sky.

She turned. “I must go to him,” she
said.

“But to what purpose—­”

“Oh, you may trust me!”

“My dear girl, that was not in my mind.”
He spoke gently. “But until the warrant
arrives—­”

“We will give it until to-morrow; by every account
it should reach us to-morrow. You shall take
it with me. I must see him once more; only once—­in
your presence, if you wish.”

Next morning they rode into the town together, an
hour before the mail’s arrival. Endymion
alighted at the Town House to write a business letter
or two before strolling down to the post office.
Dorothea cantered on to the top of the hill, and then
walked Mercury to and fro, while she watched the taller
rise beyond. The snow had ceased falling; but
a crisp north wind skimmed the drifts and powdered
her dark habit.

Twice she pulled out her watch; but the coach was
up to time in spite of the heavy roads; and as it
topped the rise she reined Mercury to the right-about
and cantered back to await it. Already the street
had begun to fill as usual; and, as usual, there was
General Rochambeau picking his way along the pavement
to present himself for the Admiral’s letter—­the
letter which never arrived.

Would her letter never arrive?

He halted on the kerb by her stirrup. She asked
after the Admiral’s health.

“Ah, Mademoiselle, if ever he leaves his bed
again, it will be a miracle.”

She was not listening. Age, age again!—­it
makes all the difference. Here came the coach—­did
it hold a letter for Raoul? Raoul was young.

The coach rolled by with less noise than usual, on
the carpet of snow churned brown with traffic.
As it passed, the guard lifted his horn and blew cheerily.
She followed, telling herself it was a good omen.
During the long wait outside the post office she rebuked
herself more than once for building a hope upon it.
Name after name was called, and at each call a prisoner
pushed forward to the doorway for his letter.
She caught sight of the General on the outskirts of
the crowd. Her brother would not come out until
every letter had been distributed.